Responsible for the Impossible
by Monkey Typewriter
Summary: Connected Oneshot Series: A brief idea of what Lord Harry Dresden's role in Westeros would be. Alludes to unmentioned backgrounds and history that would be necessary to blend the two worlds; background that will be hinted at.
1. The Redcap

Responsible for the Impossible

* * *

Sitting on the Cold Iron Chair, the wizard ran a tired hand over his face.

Truly, he had never been built to rule. But with the deaths of his parents long ago, his grandfather's somewhat recent taking of the Black, the former Lord Ebenezar Dresden who had ruled in the Starseat longer than any man before, and with the complete lack of any and all other Dresden's save his daughter, the title of Lord had been passed to Harry a few years ago. With all the weight it carried.

Lord Dresden, of House Dresden, chafed at authority, and it chafed no less when it was his own authority. Already, he had assumed the title of Warden of the Starless Cells, Knight of Winter, and Wizard of the White Council. The Mantle of Warden had been left unfilled for far too long, and to halt the waking of beings great and terrible, who wanted nothing more than to destroy the realms of Creation, a comparatively young Harry Dresden had bound himself to a dark, twisted spirit, one that only showed it's good in how it resisted and safeguarded against even darker beings. For far more personal, more vengeful reasons, he had assumed the Mantle of the Winter Knight, submitting to Queen Mab of Faerie, and possibly damned himself and his people in the process. And in order to keep his head, and to make peace with the Wizards that hid themselves throughout the realm, he had submitted to the ruling body of the Senior Members of the White Council, allowing them to monitor and dictate how he used his magic, regardless of his intentions.

Years later, he still wasn't sure how, exactly, he would manage to balance this new responsibility without being crushed under it. In the cold, harsh lands of the North, in his small Hold, there was little one could do to avoid the swinging of the blade of authority, as if one who needed to failed to assume it, the lands would be ungoverned, the ungoverned lands would fall from the rigidity that survival there required, and as the Starks would say, Winter would come.

And while Lord Dresden was the Knight of Winter, that was not a title he could share with his people, nor was it one that would spare his people any of Winter's wrath. All that the new lord could do was continue to watch the horrors trapped in the Starless Cells, rebuff any supernatural predators that saw fit to encroach on his lands, and now, settle matters of contention between his people and those unfamiliar to his lands.

So while most Lords would clutch a sword or an axe while sitting atop their glorified chair, Lord Dresden clutched a carved wooden staff, and looked down at the rich businessman who sniffed at his accuser, and the man dressed in rags, who pleaded with Lord Dresden to understand that the businessman could talk people out of their livelihoods, out of the food, coin, and supplies necessary to survive the coming Winter, and indeed, their very pride. He told Lord Dresden of how he had seen a man that had insinuated that the businessman, Redoran "Redcap" Reeves, known for the furred crimson cap he always crowned his head with, was a goat poker, moments later becoming entranced, then on his knees kissing the Redcap's boots, before receiving a savage beating from the unnaturally fair man.

Brushing a hand across his stubble, Lord Dresden looked to the Redcap, raising a hand to silence the peasant's continuing claims of evil, of witchcraft, and of thievery.

"Do not speak of witchcraft as a crime," the Lord in the Starseat advised the peasant, "for any magic that preserves the sanctity and dignity of human life will ever be allowed here."

Standing from his seat, and striding down the steps from the Starseat, Lord Dresden stood before the Redcap. "However," he continued, eyes locked onto the Redcap's without fear, certain in his bones that no soul rested behind those eyes, "you were doing no such thing, were you, Redoran Reeves?"

The name was spoken with authority, and with anger, and at its mention, Reeves the Redcap at once looked interested for the first time in the conversation, and uncertain of its outcome, though of course, the name was not properly spoken. It held no power but to get the man's, if he was indeed such, attention.

"I have no idea what you speak of... Lord Dresden."

Dresden smiled then. It was not a friendly smile. It was a cruel smile. A cold smile.

A wintry smile.

The Redcap recognized that smile, and it put fear in his heart.

"I am certain, Redoran Reeves," Dresden spoke, the frightened peasant taking a step back at the tone of certain, calm authority in his voice, "that you have heard the Queen's decree."

"Queen?" Redoran asked, face twisted in false confusion. "Surely, my Lord, you must mean-"

"I mean Queen Mab, of Faerie," Lord Dresden thundered, anger written on his face. "You have entered my lands, bewitched the wills of my people, and stolen their wealth. You will return all that you have taken, and leave with all haste."

"But-" The Redcap's own face was written with rage now, his blustering mouth ahead of his overconfident mind.

The peasant, whose name was Jacob, was lost.

Dresden, far less than lost, snarled, "But nothing. I know what you will say. You are not the first of Faerie to defy my Deal with your Queen, and you will not be the last. You cannot give anything without some type of gift in return, from those you are giving to. You are giving to my people, and by extension, me. You are giving to me what you have taken, and in return, I am graciously returning to you ownership of your life." Lifting the staff to rest just under the Redcap's chin, he narrowed his eyes. "I suggest you accept my generous offer. You will not receive another."

The Redcap was terrified. But, he had grown in the icy grips of Winter. He had faced stronger, and smarter, and he could certainly face an upjumped mortal who believed himself something more than a simple creature that existed for the enjoyment of the Fae.

So he thought.

Pulling his blade free with a snarl, the Redcap slashed at Dresden's neck with a smooth motion.

Lord Dresden was no longer there. With inhuman speed, in fact, with _Fae_ speed, he had ducked away and under the blade, and using his impressive reach, placed a ring-clad hand in the Redcap's face.

" _Forzare_ ," Dresden whispered.

 _BOOM_ , the rings roared.

 _Splat_ , the Redcap's head went.

"TITS OF THE MOTHER!" Jacob yelped.

Looking to the peasant, Lord Dresden, Master of the Starseat, the Dresden in the Cold Iron Chair, Warden of the Starless Cells, Knight of Winter, and Lord in the Starstone Hall smiled tiredly. "I don't much believe in the Seven," he joked to the peasant, "but I could certainly use a firm pair right now." Shaking his head, he focused on the task at hand. "Ser Michael!" He called.

From the large wooden entrance to the Great Hall, adorned with rugs, tapestries, and generally, textures rather than colors and embroidery, a smiling knight in full armor, hand wrapped easily yet firmly around the hilt of a longsword at his waist, entered, stopping as he saw the mess of gore and grey matter that had once been a well known businessman.

"Harry?" He asked uncertainly.

"The man was Fae," Lord Dresden snarled. "Ensure that everything he took from my people is returned, and that no friends of his are looking for revenge."

Surveying the scene again, a serious look came to Michael's face. "As you say, Lord Dresden," he replied in a deep, calm bass. More gently, he said, "before you go to bed, I suggest that you see Lady Maggie. She has been missing her father, as of late."

Lord Dresden nodded without meeting Michael's gaze.

"Milord?" Questioned Jacob, his voice squeaking slightly.

"Jacob, was it?" Dresden turned to him tiredly. "I would suggest that you tell nobody that I blew a man's head off with a word. Things could go..." Harry nodded his head to either side. "Poorly for you."

"Yes Milord," Jacob cried, backing out the same door that Michael had entered. "Thank you, Milord," he said, meaning to be grateful for the fact that his own head hadn't been popped like a bottle of Astapor Wine.

A few minutes after Jacob left, Michael observed, "You have been rather free with threats lately, my Lord, spoken and unspoken."

"And?" Lord Dresden asked with exhaustion in his voice, his shoulders once more sagging under the weight of responsibility.

"Winter is coming," Ser Michael observed again.

"I won't let the Mantle take me," Dresden swore. "Mab will not have me."

"Of course, My Lord." Michael agreed easily, a small, sad smile dancing across his lips. "You're too good a man for that."

With that, Ser Michael left.

Sitting in the seat of his power, Lord Dresden stretched out his senses, and felt the power that ran under the surface, felt the ley lines that intersected beneath the Starseat, and the power that all but thrummed through the air of the Starstone Hall.

He considered this power, and all the terrible things that he could do with it.

He considered this power, and all the terrible things that he could have stopped with it, but didn't.

He considered this power, but not once did he consider the good that he could do, and had done, with it.

He considered the power. And he shook his head away from it.

"'Too good a man,'" he said, unbelieving. He snorted. "I'm not good," he told himself. "I'm just too damn stubborn to be bad."

And so Lord Harry Dresden sat in his seat of power, and he let the world spin on, intent on protecting his people, and the whole of Westeros, from the beasts and monsters that rose out of his lands.

He sat in his seat of power, before shaking his head and he grinning tiredly as he stood from it, taking the advice of his Knight and sworn sword, striding slowly towards his daughter's room.

His smile widened with every step, and when he finally saw his little girl, safe and content in her bed, sleeping without a care in the world, he remembered why he spat in the face of every Faerie, Demon, Vampire, or Warlock that strode into his territory and demanded the power of the Starseat for themselves, or demanded the blood or souls of the smallfolk under his protection.

He remembered, and he reaffirmed to himself, that so long as he drew breath...

Those beasts wouldn't.

* * *

 **AN: I don't know what I'm going to do with this, if anything. It's doubtful that I'm going to try to write a full-on crossover, especially while trying to weave Dresden elements into a world as rich as George R. R. Martin's.**

 **Most likely, if I add anything else to this, it will be in the vein of connected one-shots, playing off of things throughout the TV series, or dealing with the merging of the worlds.**

 **One more thing for this story, I am not completely satisfied with this, and will likely return to edit it before I add anything else to it.**

 **As for how I should be writing Teaching Bravery instead... this One Shot was an accidental, drunken piece that turned out better than I ever would have expected. It happened at 3:00 in the AM, and to be honest, I'm proud that it went as well as it did. It didn't take any time away from my struggling with the most recent Teaching Bravery chapter. Anyways, have a good day all, and Happy FanFic-ing!**

 **EDITS 1: Cleaned up some text and cell-phone auto-correct typos, and added a bit of context that I'm unsure whether or not will add or detract to the story. We'll see, I guess.**

 **EDIT 2: Removed the bit about Harry 'recently' being unapprenticed. I was of two minds when writing this, that of having a young Lord Dresden who had the position thrust upon him before he was ready, and show off a Dresden more like from Storm Front or Fool Moon dealing with Lordship, and being the Warden, and having an older Lord Dresden who was used to dealing with this type of crap, and adjusting to things getting wilder, as Magic reawakened in other parts of the world. I needed to be sure that I chose one for this one shot, and that if another one comes along in which I explore the other option, well, awesome! So Dresden has been Lord for ten years.**

 **AN 2: I'll be brief. The Redcap could be considered there under guest rights, to a degree, though it is unlikely seeing as it is a matter of justice. If he were under Guest Rights, he would have forsaken his protection by hurting Dresden's people, seeing as Dresden made a point of saying his land/people are extensions of himself. You don't hurt your host and stay protected by Guest Rights! (Or is it Rites? I'm genuinely not sure...!)**


	2. The Starless Cells

Responsible for the Impossible: The Starless Cells

Sucking in a deep breath, Lord Dresden stared at the Cold Iron Chair from the base of the stairs leading up to it. Proud and cold, the chair forged from blackened iron and gleaming steel stared back, etched into its high, towering back a star inscribed within a circle, with a fist-sized ruby stared back down at the Wizard. Lifting a hand to his ever-present amulet, he pulled out his matching pentacle, its red gem gleaming hungrily, from under the enchanted, rune-coated red and black robes and leather armors he wore in place of 'Lordly' clothes.

"Responsible for the Impossible," he spoke grimly, as if reminding himself, as he rubbed the unsettling crystal. "Hell's Bells, our family gets a raw deal." Shaking his head, he pulled a dagger from a small sheath at his hip, where a bastard sword also hung, and with a grimace, pulled the blade across his left palm, retracing an old, ugly scar of messy, more or less parallel lines that all lay close together on his hand, a line of red opening with the practiced motion.

Rubbing the blood into the crimson gem at the center of the pentacle, the wound knit itself closed until the line of red was replaced by a line of pink, raw skin, and the blood was pulled towards the gem, disappearing into its unseen depths, until the hand was left free of and unstained by the thick liquid.

The gem glowed ever so slightly, before flashing. Once, twice, three times, and the light it had granted vanished.

All was silent in the Starstone Hall, it seemed. Lord Dresden stood alone in the hall with the chair, tapestries hanging around him, some displaying the sigil of House Dresden, a familiar red-gemmed pentacle, aflame, that which was steel in the flesh instead appearing as grey fabric on a field of black. Below, echoing his earlier musings, were the House Words: Responsible for the Impossible.

And as Dresden saw one such responsibility manifest before him, a figure in the rough shape of a man, twice the height of even Lord Dresden and built with obvious, monstrous strength in its frame, a being that seemed to limp into existence out of thin air, with eyes of green that burned out from beneath its hood, the emerald flame licking at its cloak, but illuminating nothing of the terrors that could have lied beneath.

With a tired smile, Lord Dresden greeted the spirit. "Hello, Demonreach. Any problems that need tending to?"

"ALWAYS." The voice that issued forth from the towering spirit, if it could be called such, shook the earth with its power, and made the air thrum with its strength. "YOU SHOULD BE READY TO BATTLE WHATEVER MAY ESCAPE WHENEVER YOU OPEN THE PRISON," it neutrally reminded the Lord of the North that stood before him.

With an exasperated expression, he called his staff to him with a murmured spell, and the length of carved wood obeyed, soaring through the air as if it were the most natural thing for it to do, and clapping into the Lord's palm with a satisfying heft to it. "If ever that prison is opened and something escapes, there isn't much chance of me stopping it without some kind of miracle."

The towering apparition did not respond.

Sighing, Lord Dresden rubbed at his eyes. "Whatever. Let's just do the rounds, make sure the prison is secure, and shut down for the night."

At this, the apparition nodded, and turned to lumber towards the wall behind the Starseat. With no warning save a rumble from the depths of the earth, and a matching one that issued itself from Demonreach's person, the wall shuddered downward, three yards of solid worked stone sinking into the earth around it, and allowing entry to the spirit that embodied its power and ancient burden, and its master, the Lord, Wizard, and Man that shouldered that burden alongside the ancient being.

"Too many stairs," Lord Dresden muttered to himself, though he was sure the first Wizard to serve as Warden, and the first and only Wizard to layer the prison with its countless runes, had crafted it with the exact number of stairs needed to maximize the security of the inmates in said prison.

It took a long time. In the past, Dresden had tired and tried to count every single step, though he had long since forgotten the extreme number he found himself estimating, after giving up on the exercise. He remembered only that the number was greater than ten thousand, and somewhere under thirty-thousand. It had taken him several trips to count enough of them to make a fair guess, though he had little better to do on these walks up and down the stairs.

"Anything stirring up trouble?" Dresden asked knowingly, watching as the occasional rune or rock glowed, or flashed, or twinkled. At least one of his prisoners was getting antsy.

"ONE OF THE SKINWALKERS TRIED TO BREAK FREE OF ITS CRYSTAL AGAIN BY SHAPESHIFTING. IT'S THE SIZE OF A RABBIT NOW, WITH NO SPACE TO GROW BACK OUT." At that, the Lord let out a less than Lordly snicker. He had lived through a Skinwalker's wrath, and after it had scarred him, and he'd killed it, with a little help, he had begun to hate the beasts almost as much as the now extinct race of Vampires that had threatened his kin.

This is because the Skinwalker that attacked him had made a very similar mistake as the Vampires, before he had blasted it off of a cliff with an freezing wind, and then entrapped the form it attempted to fly with inside of a block of ice.

His favorite part, he reminisces fondly, was cleaving the snarling, bastardized, and oversized hawk's head from its body, and burning all of the remains to ashes.

And he would do no less for any others to threaten Maggie.

Interrupting his stream of consciousness, almost every rune crafted and layered into Demonreach flashed, the stairway becoming brighter than a clear day in Dorne. With a cry of surprise, Lord Dresden fell backwards, hands clutching at his eyes. Soon enough, they faded to a much lower glowing, though their warning was still clear.

Danger.

Blindly sensing the hesitating presence of the ancient spirit beside him, he snarled out "GO!"

Instantly, Demonreach's strength, resilience, and power evaporated. And Lord Harry Dresden, Knight of Winter, felt cold.

"Bastards," he seethed, retaking his feet and scooping up his staff as he began to jog down the stairs, trusting his _intellectus_ to guide his feet, rather than his still clearing eyesight. At the chill in the air that had nothing to do with temperature, not for the Winter Knight at least, the Warden knew who, exactly, wanted to escape his prison.

Still, it took him upwards of fifteen minutes to run down the stairs. As he finally did make it there, he found Demonreach standing in the doorway, completely blocking his sight into the Low Security part of the prison.

"Let me see them," he ordered Demonreach, most of the anger gone from his voice. At his word, the giant shifted to the side, and he saw those that were trying to escape.

Even before the chill wind that tried to blow through him, before the instinctive fear that tried to take root in his gut, and before the scent of death and decay flowed up towards him, he knew who was trying to escape. The prison had the most trouble with them, not because they had the most power to bring to bear, or because they were an unstoppable force of any kind. There were creatures, eldritch horrors deep within the depths of Demonreach, that made the power of these Others, the blue-skinned Whitewalkers that stared up at their Warden with a cold hate, look like nothing but a parlor trick.

"You three really are the problem children," the tower of a man declared with contempt written into his brow.

The first rushed up at the Knight of Winter, a blade of ice forming within its hand. It rang against a wall of swirling force, the Warden still looking down at the living stain of corruption upon the world, staff aglow in his right hand. Slowly, the Lord passed the staff into his off hand, and steel rasped as it drew breath, free from the scabbard at his hip.

Runes began to light themselves across the blade, too, to match the staff, and a green conflagaration that mirrored the blaze of Demonreach's emerald eyes in color sprang across the blade, warring with the blues and reds that similarly raged into being, dancing across the blade in a dizzying swirl of flame.

"Get back in your cells," The Warden, The Knight, The Lord, commanded.

The Other before him snarled, and his brothers under the Long Night did the same, blades of their own creeping and shuddering into existence.

"So be it."

One moment, a wall of swirling blue, translucent force protected the Whitewalkers from Lord Dresden. Then it vanished, and their captor sprang into action.

" _Forzare!"_ He thundered, and the Whitewalkers stumbled back, thrown off balance by the wide wave of invisible force their Warden expelled with ease. The Whitewalker before the Knight of Winter managed to regain his footing well enough to parry the first strike, sending the savage stab that would have gutted him skittering off of the rune-coated wall. Trying to capitalize on this, he brought his bastard blade of ice around in a wild overheaded swing, the tight corridors preventing much in the way of lateral attacks.

Raising his blade, his sword met the Other's in a shower of sparks and flame.

Snarling, a small plane of blue energy sprang into being around Lord Dresden's left hand, allowing him to shunt the next two attacks to the side, before he brought his staff back up, and commanded flame into being once more.

" _Fuego!_ "

And with a searing line of flame burning a hole from groin to shoulder, the first Other fell backwards, sword slipping from his grasp and shattering upon the stairs, as he did the same.

"Get back. In your. Cells." The command was quiet, but filled with the promise of violence.

The two remaining Whitewalkers looked at each other, hesitating.

It was all the opening that was needed. "Take them," Dresden commanded, and instantly, Demonreach was at their side, massive, gnarled hands that looked only vaguely human, leaving even the Warden uncertain as to whether or not they were flesh, or stone, or wood, grasping at their shoulders. Without warning, crystal began to flash grow around them, and the silent beings began to writhe in agony, as the creeping structure slowly encased them, even their incredible physical might incapable of deterring Demonreach from its goal, from shaking its grip once it held them.

Once the long process was done, the Warden turned without another thought, striding up the stairs purposefully, strongly. Demonreach ponderously followed behind, like an old but faithful hound.

When he was certain that he was out of sight of the prison floor, the Warden sagged.

"WARDEN?" Though most would miss it, Lord Dresden heard the concern in Demonreach's voice.

Most likely, concern that he would need a new Warden already, but concern nonetheless.

Dresden waved a hand at him, gesturing for him to calm down. "Making fire hot enough to cut into them... is not the easiest thing in the world." Leaning against the wall, he watched as the runes that had been giving off a low glow began to fade, the defenses that they represented deactivating, one by one winking out like stars disappearing from the sky. If the prison fulfilled its purpose, they were the closest things to stars that any trapped within would see again.

"COULD YOU NOT USE THE QUEEN'S GIFTED POWER TO FIGHT THEM PHYSICALLY?"

Lord Dresden shook his head, calling up light as the runes faded. "I'm maybe as strong as one, in a fight. That doesn't really help me out, seeing as they can potentially kill me with one touch, or that they might be more skilled with a blade than I am. If I was fast enough to make sure that they never got close, then maybe. But-"

"YOU ARE NOT. YOU ARE BOTH LIKE THE SMALL ONE SAID. AT THE VERY PEAK OF MAN'S PHYSICAL POWER AT ALL TIMES, FOR GOOD OR FOR ILL."

The wizard nodded. "On top of that, if I don't keep my sword aflame, their weapons will freeze through and shatter it, and I'm not a good enough swordsman, Mantle or no, to avoid being killed without blocking with my blade every now and then."

Demonreach stood silently, content with these answers, while Lord Dresden caught his breath. After a minute or so, he straightened, and began his way up the stairs.

"AND THE HIGHER SECURITY PRISONERS?" Demonreach' voice, while still booming in the confined space, did not sound aggravated at what could be seen as the Warden shirking his duty. After years of being bound to the man, the spirit knew that Lord Harry Dresden was not one to shirk from a difficult task.

"They'll keep until tomorrow. They aren't springing any of the defenses or we'd be seeing it now. If the Whitewalkers saw me return after leaving, though, they'd know that I was weakened from my fight with them, and start pushing all the harder to break out. And if I had stayed in the prison, one of our bigger problems would have witnessed my weakness." Looking up into Demonreach's eyes, something the towering man still wasn't completely used to doing, he solemnly spoke. "The illusion of an all-powerful Warden is part of what keeps these beings trapped here. They know their own power is nearly unmatchable, but they also know that a perfectly mortal wizard is what trapped them here in the first place. So long as they assume all Wardens are as strong as their first one, keeping them trapped will be all the easier."

Demonreach nodded slowly, and they both began back up the stairs.

"On the matters of more mortal affairs," Lord Dresden began, "It sounds like the King is going to be coming North, to visit his good friend Ned Stark."

Demonreach did not respond.

"Some say that the Lord of the North is going to be going South, soon, as Hand of the King."

Demonreach continued up the stairs, following behind the Warden.

"As for me, I just hope that His Grace doesn't stop by here any time soon." Lord Dresden shook his head. "It will already be bad enough that he hates Ebenezar. But if he hears how we welcome sorcery, or that we practice our own kind... Well, aside from wearing a dragon on your chest, proclaiming knowledge from Old Valyria is the best way to piss off the King, I hear."

"YOUR MAGIC IS NOT OF VALYRIA."

Surprised to have drawn a reaction out of Demonreach, Lord Dresden paused. "You know that, and I know that," He began slowly, "but Robert is willfully ignorant about magic, and that's going to hurt us all the more."

Demonreach remained silent.

So to did Lord Dresden.

They walked on in a loud quiet, the only interruptions the soft steps of Harry's boots, and the all-too loud clacking of his staff upon ancient stone.


	3. The Royal Family

Responsible for the Impossible: The Royal Family

* * *

Preparations for the arrival of the Royal Family were behind schedule. Of course, seeing as the raven had arrived late with news of the Royal Family's arrival, there was little to be done but to hurry up, and pray that the royals suffered a slowing but entirely non-serious delay. The cooks wrestled with their ingredients, the maids struggled to keep the castle spotless, and the Lord met the young Lady Dresden in a battle of wills.

"I am not wearing that," she vowed, fire in her eyes as she looked up at her Lord Father.

"You have to," Lord Dresden told her, exasperation in his voice, and his eyes locked onto his daughter's nose. "With your growth spurt, it's the only proper gown that will fit you."

The gown in question, a soft, yet thickly tailored deep red dress, with a high neck and long sleeves that projected an air of refinement in how it clung to the arms and flowed about the body, lay spread across the bed. Lady Margaret eyed the dress once again, before she shook her head, turning her nose up at it. "Just because 'proper ladies' wear gowns doesn't mean that I need to. I could put something better together in twenty minutes!"

"Maggie..." Lord Dresden sighed, before rubbing a finger and thumb into his eyes. Defeated, he abandoned the argument he had only half-gathered in his mind. "Did you have something in mind?"

The glint in her eye as she turned to look at him said it all.

* * *

And so it was that on the day that the Royal Family approached the Starstone Hall, Lord Dresden stood in front of the open gates leading to his castle, awaiting the ferry that was necessary to bring the Royal Party to the island, and for the party to ride the remainder of the five miles between the Hall and the docks.

Beside him, and looking far too pleased with herself by half, in his opinion, Lady Margaret Dresden smirked. She was clad in a dark black and red robe that matched his own, small pieces of brown leather armor that served more as fashion statement than protective wear worn in thin pauldrons, down her torso in what could only be called a display of form over function, and a single, comparatively tough piece lightly guarding her back in the only real concession to defense. Her manner of dress was much like her father's, save for the absolute paranoia that went into the physical and magical crafting of his own leathers, and idly, Lord Dresden wondered what the royal family would make of that, with ideas and perceptions shaped by their experience with the snake pit that was King's Landing.

Behind the last two Dresdens south of the Wall, Ser Michael stood in his polished plate, with an easy smile fixed to his face, beside whom stood his wife, with a frown to match Michael's smile aimed at their Lord, dressed far too improperly, for her tastes, to receive the King.

A gathering of ten or so guards in chain and leather armor that, while not shining and new, was evidently well cared-for stood behind both the Dresden family, and Ser Carpenter with his wife Lady Charity. The Carpenters stood without their young, all the Carpenter children either deemed too immature by their mother to greet royalty, or already gone from the castle to seek their own fortunes.

The castle's Maester, Maester Waldo, whose chain hung heavy with links of many colors, stood behind the Lord Dresden and to his left. Two silver links hung nearly hidden beneath his robes, marking him as adept with, but no master at, the healing arts. He had a single link of black iron for ravenry; though he generally found the birds to be pleasant company, he dismissed the 'advanced' teachings in the art of ravenry to be wastes of time. A pale steel link and a link of Valyrian Steel marked the time he had spent convinced that he and he alone might rediscover the secret to forging the finest blades in Westeros, in his youthful arrogance, though he imagined that what he had learned through studying what Lord Dresden could do was worth far more than what he had been taught of sorcery while pursuing the Valyrian Steel link. Bronze and copper, for Astronomy and History, as well as yellowed gold for economic acumen, among some other, lesser known links that marked him as better-educated than a great many people of Westeros, including a fair few Lords and Ladies of the land.

They were not waiting long after midday before the royal party came into view.

At its head rode a pair of Baratheon men, so known by the banners they bore, a crowned black stag on a field of yellow, staring down at the Dresden men and women with royal disdain. Right behind them, the regal lions of Casterly Rock gazed upon them from their own banners, men loyal either to the Queen, or her Lord Father, Harry didn't much care which. After the lions came the guards that had ridden out to meet the King's Party, Captain Murphy at their head, with a practiced calm look on her face that set Lord Dresden to gritting his teeth in preparation for the worst.

Finally, a man large in presence, stature, and girth rode up on a powerful black destrier, an angry beast bred for battle, which barely tolerated the indignity of being held back for so slow a party of draft horses, walking men, and carriages. From atop the muscled black beast, the man whose messy beard hid the sagging of his jowls raised a hand to halt his party, as his queen and children exited the finely-crafted carriage that they had ridden up in.

All around, the people of the Starstone Hall dropped to their knees, leaving only the Lord and the young Lady Dresden standing.

Sketching a deep bow, the Lord of the Starstone Hall solemnly spoke. "Your Grace. Be welcome in my Hall, warm at my hearth, and contented at my table." Beside him, Maggie bowed similarly as he introduced her. "My daughter and heir, Margaret Dresden, Your Grace."

As his family moved to stand beside his warhorse, King Robert gave a quick nod from atop the monstrous mount, a small curl of distaste to his expression as the lord bowed before him. It was difficult to tell if it was for the act, or for the man performing it.

"Yes, yes, and all my children are right here," he grumbled, waving a vague hand at two boys and a girl, all yellow of hair. "Enough of all that," he rumbled, dismounting his horse. "Let's get inside, it feels like something's bloody watching me."

The children all seemed more than prepared to move behind solid stone walls, judging by the looks on their faces. Queen Cersei, however, appeared to be holding a stern frown on her face through sheer force of will, allowing very few flickers of uncertainty to break through her carefully constructed mask of confidence.

In spite of himself, Lord Dresden was impressed. He had heard horrible things about the Lannister family, and so did not expect to like the woman, but he knew from experience that it took a strong will to force oneself forward through the sort of creeping dread that Demonreach assaulted any who walked its shores with, let alone to maintain a straight face while enduring it all. The woman was strong, even if there was every chance that she was a vile human being, and for that, she had earned some small measure of respect from the Winter Knight.

"One moment, husband," she said. "Thus far on our journey, every Lord that we have met has offered control of their hall to their rightful king."

Lord Dresden looked at her. After a moment, he realized that she was waiting for his response, no doubt to bind him with his own words.  
She can keep on waiting, He thought with vicious satisfaction, noticing the slight flash of annoyance in the woman's eye, in how her nostrils flared.  
Lord Dresden firmly believed that the only way to win these wars of words and verbal assaults was not to play, whenever one could choose not to.

"Your point, Cersei?" The King did not much care for these games of semantics and politics, or for whatever point his wife was making. Not when his skin was crawling, not when his hands itched to close around some castle-forged steel, in spite of the fact that his current enemy was not a physical one.

"My point, my lord husband, is that your vassal has done no such thing here."

A cool smile took shape on Lord Dresden's face, as King Robert's face turned to his, brow furrowed somewhere between confusion and annoyance. "I have extended you guest rite. I have opened my hall to you. I don't believe that there is any necessity for me to do more."

"Where is your respect for your king?" Queen Cersei demanded. "What kind of vassal does not offer all that they have to their liege?"

"Queen Cersei," Lord Dresden said, remaining just within the bounds of respect to one's ruler. "Dating back to the Age of Heroes, one of the only demands House Dresden has made in exchange for our loyalty is that there always be a Dresden to fill the Starseat, and to watch over the Starstone Hall. It was this way for the Kings of Winter, when the Starks united the North under their rule. It was this way for the Lords and Ladies Manderly, when they came to the North and became a power to be feared by land or sea. It was this way for the Targaryens, when they came raining fire and blood from the heavens."

"The last time I checked," the Queen said, with an expression caught somewhere between a sneer and a smirk, pausing with her mouth hanging open for just a moment as she allowed suspense and expectations to build around her, "I was not a Wolf, nor a Merman, nor a Dragon. I am a Lion."

Lord Dresden's smile sharpened. "There has never been a Wolf in the Cold Iron Chair, Queen Cersei. No Wolf, no Merman, and no Dragon has ever taken it from us by force, or won it from us through guile, much less been granted the right to sit the Starseat out of respect, or some petty show of dedication and submission. I see little chance that a Stag or Lion will find themselves in that chair any time soon."

Stepping so that he was no longer between the Royal party and the gates to his long, stout hall, he took a moment to eye his men at arms in the yard, and the knights and guards the party from King's Landing had brought with them.

Almost every single one of the men in both of their contingents were tightly gripping their sword or spear. The only exceptions that he noticed in his own soldiers were his sworn sword Ser Michael, who tried to defuse the tension between the nearest group of Dresden men facing off with those wearing livery stamped with Stags or Lions, the captain of his personal guard, Karrin Murphy, whose loose grip upon her blade, and cool, evaluative eyes spoke of more danger than those of most present, and his Maester, Waldo Butters, who only ever kept a dagger at Lord Dresden's insistence, and whose hands were shaking too much at the thought of fighting the Crown's soldiers to reach under his robes to find it.

"Quit the dick-waving with my wife, Dresden," King Robert commanded, breaking through the tensions with unseemly ease. "Your King needs wine, and to get out of the open." His statement was punctuated with an uneasy gaze directed at the tree line, unnaturally thick for so small a Northern island, not so far from where he still sat his horse. His shoulders tensed, before he tore his attention away from it, and to the assembled men at arms and knights. "All of you, put your swords away!" The King thundered. "We're guests here, and the first man that doesn't act like it can sleep outside!"

At his words, a shiver crawled up the spines of some of the weaker-willed men in the Royal party. Lord Dresden fought down a grimace. Being outside, alone in the dark with no walls or flames to ward off Demonreach pressing on one's mind was not his idea of a restful night, even if he was considered by the island's spirit to be part of the island, and therefore unnecessary to attack in such a way.

Thankfully, he and his family before him had long since made it clear to Demonreach that those who called the island home were to be considered as part of the island, so far as that first line of defense went. And while the island didn't like it, it also didn't hate the idea of a fully functioning keep acting as an extra layer of protection between the Starless Cells and any who might try to free its prisoners from Demonreach's stewardship.

That did little for anyone foreign to its shores, though. Getting behind the walls of the Starstone Hall would help, surely, as having a few feet of solid rock between you and the source of your fear would set anyone at ease to some degree. The threshold that had woven together over the generations of Dresdens living there, too, would keep out the very worst of Demonreach's influence. But again, that was only behind the walls, and the King's threat would strip offenders against his will of even that.

"As you command, Your Grace," Lord Dresden acquiesced easily, sketching a brief bow before signaling for his men to fall in line, leading them and the royal party through the open gates, and into the great hall of the modestly sized castle.

* * *

The feast was an interesting affair.

King Robert, deep into his cups, and halfway down the shirt of a buxom serving girl, was red faced and jolly with laughter and raucous cheer. While he was not the only one—he was a rather powerful man, after all, and charismatic to boot... King Robert had never before found himself without others willing to share in drink with him, and it was unlikely he ever would—his table was largely solitary in its cheer. His wife and children, as expected, sat in the place of honor, the high table prepared just before the steps that raised the Cold Iron Chair to hold court over all present, while King Robert sat with a table full of his more jovial men-at-arms and sworn swords, in a comfortable corner of the hall.

Lord Dresden had hesitated to sit with the Royal Family, rather than in the Cold Iron Chair, where he could watch the entirety of the feast and deal with any troubles that were brewing, long before they truly became problems. But the idea of leaving his daughter alone to face off the Lady Lion of Lannister and her three cubs had killed his hesitation.

"So, Lord Dresden," The Southron Queen of the Seven Kingdoms asked, "how is it that you manage to keep smallfolk across the continent so certain that you're some powerful, all-knowing mystic?" The gorgeous blonde's smile was stunning in its insincerity.

"It's very simple," Lord Dresden began, the air of someone about to tell an oft shared and rarely refused story enchanting his words. "To put it clearly, by being a powerful, all-knowing-"

"Mostly-knowing," Lady Maggie cut in with a roll of her eyes.

"Mostly-knowing," he allowed, "Mystic. Your Grace."

"Well," The Queen said, "If you have some magic trick to share, we all would be delighted, I am certain."

"I hope that, should I find reason to perform a working on your behalf, it is a kinder sort of magic than usual. The last time I needed to use The Art in earnest, it was a matter of life and death."

"Oh?" A new voice asked. "And what was it this time, the grumpkins or the snarks? I must confess, I don't know which is more active this time of year."  
Dragging out a chair and climbing into it, Lord Tyrion Lannister joined the high table, sitting between his niece Myrcella, and his nephew Tommen.

Lord Dresden sighed. "I fail to see what's so difficult about believing magic to be real, Lord Tyrion. One hundred and fifty years ago, dragons flew through the sky. Before that, sorcerers and practitioners worked steel and stone in Old Valyria, and before that, the restless dead walked these lands on their endless hunt of the living. Castles stand today that Bran the Builder would have found impossible to raise without some eldritch power at his beck and call, and-"

"And you sit in your humble hall with all the power to do the same?" Lord Tyrion asked with little humor in his voice. "With the ability to craft more Valyrian Steel for your fellow Lords, and to put down any fell creatures that might break down The Wall or rise out from their graves?"

Lord Dresden gave a brittle smile. "One man, even a wizard, can only do so much. Someday, maybe, I'll craft such wonders as they have, but my talents and interests both lean more towards defending my people and teaching my daughter what little I know."

At this, Lords Dresden and Tyrion both looked towards the young Lady Maggie. The Queen's brother had a mirth in his voice as he spoke, after a quick gulp of wine. "And so your tale includes your daughter too? My queenly sister is right, I think that we would all love to see some magic. My Lady Dresden," he addressed the young woman as she fiddled with the straps of her leather armor, desperate to avoid engaging with the prince seated across from her. Handsome though he was, he was not kind to her in conversation throughout the day. Maggie had been more than a little disappointed upon first meeting him, before his taunts and barbs gained more frequency, and targeted her and her family specifically, rather than whatever servants were in his way.

Once he had done that, she had been angry. But her father had taken her aside when the Prince went to practice with his crossbow in the modest training hall their keep held. Her father had told her that the royals would not stay long, and that they couldn't afford to offend the ruling family of Westeros anymore than they could starting a war with the Iron Bank. And she understood, though she was more than a little displeased to be left as the host to so miserable a person to be around.

At least she'd been allowed to keep Mouse with her, no matter the complaints Prince Joffrey made of the 'stupid mutt.' Because even if he was going to rule the Seven Kingdoms one day, Demonreach was hers, would be hers alone, seeing how terrified he and all those Southron Lords and Ladies and Sers and Servants were of the island she had come to as a girl of eight, the North that raised her as surely as her time across the Narrow Sea in Braavos. Demonreach was her home, and not even the King and Queen could push her father off of his throne here.

So long as she was in the North, she would never need to bother with the Crown Prince again, outside of some distant, vacant ruler she need only say was her liege. No matter what they thought, nobody ruled the North but the Lords born of winter. Eddard Stark was king in all but name here, and even he controlled nothing of Demonreach and its vassal lands and towns.

It was these thoughts that occupied her head, and assuaged her anger at the arrogant child that would one day rule the world through both the day and this dinner.

And so at the Imp's prompting, she was caught out, surprised and confused, having missed the entirety of the conversation before that moment. "M-my Lord?" She stuttered, immediately cursing herself. She had learned better than that, been taught and drilled on etiquette and controlling herself well enough that such failures in communication should not have happened.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure, my Lady Dresden," The Imp smiled, the expression charming, in spite of his deformity and mismatched eyes. "I am Tyrion of House Lannister. I was wondering, my Lady, if I could trouble you for a demonstration of the skills your family is rumored to possess."

Lady Maggie did her best to read the small man's expression without ever allowing her eyes to meet his for more than a moment. He seemed earnest, but… "Rumored, you said," she repeated. "Do you not believe then, my Lord?'

"Sharp mind, your daughter has," Lord Tyrion laughed again, raising the wine glass that hadn't left his hand the entire time he had sat at the table, and that, in fact, he had brought to the table with him, to salute Lord Dresden with. "I have some trouble in believing things being fantastical when far more mundane, more _likely_ explanations exist."

Young Lady Margaret's head tilted to the side. "If that's the case, there's no real point in showing you anything, is there?" She asked, "Not when there's always something 'more likely' than magic."

"Very sharp mind, my daughter has," Lord Dresden smiled proudly. "And added to all of my standard reasons, I would prefer not to flaunt our sorcery in front of the King. As I am sure you know, he has… problems, with anything that can be connected to Old Valyria, even with the most tenuous thread." With a small wave of his hand, Lord Dresden swept the matter aside. "I will not be made a spectacle of in my own hall, if I can help it. There will be no demonstration today." The words were harsh, but his tone made the matter into something of a joke.

And of course, that was when the screaming started.

* * *

 **AN: I feel a little bit bad now, honestly, what with the whole cliffhanger thing, seeing as my updates are so infrequent, but this is already longer than the other chapters on this fic by a fair bit, and it's been so long since I've posted anything, that I figured I might as well post it now!**

 **In other news, I now have a Pa treon (FF.N deletes that word/url if I write it out in whole, so here we are with the space) that I hope you'll consider supporting me through, if you like my work! All fanfics that I write will remain free to view and read for all, this is just in case you all like what I do and want to help me meet expenses! I have the thing set up in such a way that payments go through per-upload, rather than monthly, so nobody gets ripped off by my slow updates. My name there is the same as here, Monkey Typewriter, so give me a look-see if you like!**

 **Edit: Respaced first three quarters of the chapter, and very minor edits in word use. Thanks for the tip on the spacing issue, Sociopathic-Anarchist!**


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